T'Cap N'all
by Mr Sibshaw
Summary: Set in 1982 and 2005 Alvin finds out about the past misadventures of the old resident in his house, Compo, and his friends.


An eye slowly opened, blinking in the early morning sunlight that peppered across his face through the dust and smoke tinted windows in Compo's bedroom. 'Too early' he grunted as he reached for his crotched, green hat. Outside he heard the familiar sound of the dawn chorus to a beat of a yard brush and the gentle trickle of the river. Compo looked at his clock, out of habit; it read 5.23 as it had for the last two years. He pulled himself up, out of bed and galumphed over to the window, wrenching it open and leaning out into the fresh air. 'What time do you call this?' he shouted to Nora below. 'Time you did something about your window panes' came the curt response 'Every morning I find more flakes from your windows, its high time they were painted'. 'I 'ad 'em painted and couldn't get them open fer ages after' Compo pointed out indignantly. 'When? When did you get your windows painted?' Nora asked with surprise. 'Some time 'tween nineteen fifty and nineteen sixty'. 'Well no wonder!' Nora said. 'It's about time they were done again!' and she turned and swept off in the opposite direction. I only asked her the time, thought Compo. Every morning all I want is the time and she never gives me a straight answer.

Compo meandered downstairs with the last embers of a woodbine glowing between his fingers. Pausing by the front door he dabbed out the stub to save for later, stashing it away in an empty tobacco tin. Once in the kitchen he prodded the last slices of a loaf, firm but just on the right side of stale. He dolloped a lump of marmalade onto a slice. ' You keep away from my chuffin' marmalade' Compo shouted at his ferrets, who were fidgeting and squeaking with excitement behind their bars. 'I 'ad enough trouble shaving it off thee last night'. Compo made his way to the front door; stopping as he opened it he turned and gave the evil eye to his ferrets. Walking up the stairs he blinked in the bright light and headed for the café.

Foggy sat on the park bench following his morning constitutional, brimming with excitement. It was a quiet morning, none of Foggy's casual acquaintances were about and he longed for someone to share his good news with. Of course, he could go to the café early today but he wanted to share this news with someone who would listen before enduring Compo's quips. Maybe Clegg would be the person to share the new with. Deciding a brisk walk to Clegg's was just the thing Foggy set off.

Clegg was awake and going through the paces of his own morning breakfast routine. Clearing away the toast rack and condiment pots Clegg reflected on the soothing familiarity of meal times. Each meal, Clegg thought to himself, is a life cycle in itself. Instead of birth, life and death you have preparation, consummation and… Clegg's introspective search for a word that summed up "the putting away of things" was interrupted but a short burst of precise military rapping at the door. In a frustrated instant Clegg knew his quiet solitude for the day had ended and Foggy was eagerly waiting outside his door. Clegg had often wondered if he should share his second sense for knocks but decided to keep them to himself. Few people ever knocked on Clegg's door and Foggy's précising beating, Howard's guilty, meek whisper of a tap and Compo's tuneful rat-a-tat-tat were as individual as each of his friends.

Clegg opened the door and Foggy rushed in, without invitation, clutching a small envelope in one hand and his walking stick in the other. 'He's coming!' Foggy exclaimed with glee. A broad smile stretched underneath his bright white moustache. 'Who is coming?' Clegg enquired with trepidation. Foggy thrust the envelope into Clegg's hand. As Clegg read the enclosed letter a sly smile spread across his face.

Compo sat on the steps at the side of the café in his hand he held a small pile of pebbles from the gutter and was throwing them at the tree. With his last throw he slumped his face into his hands at the sound of feet behind him he thought of moving, then decided he might be able to borrow a bob from feet's owner. 'Has Ivy thrown you out already?' a familiar voice asked. ''Nah' Compo replied turning to Clegg and Foggy 'She's gone out and Crush has lost the keys'. 'Well that won't do.' Foggy said taking charge of the situation and marching up to the door. Inside Milburn was on his hands and knees peering under the tables.

Foggy rapped at the door at which Milburn jumped and banged his head on the underside of a table. His pain quickly forgotten at the sight of more potential customers Milburn let out a panicked whine of 'I can't let you in, I've lost the keys.' 'Keep calm man' Foggy replied 'Where does Ivy normally keep the keys?' Milburn thought for a moment 'In her pocket.' 'Then perhaps' Foggy started, trying not to sound condescending, 'Ivy still has them in her pocket' he reasoned. 'She can't' replied Milburn 'She gave them to me and said 'Milburn don't lose them. Keep them in your pocket.'' Foggy paused, waiting to see if Milburn would elaborate on whether he had checked his pocket but instead he looked around furtively in hope that they might be in plain sight. 'Have you tried your pockets?' Foggy enquired patiently. After a second of searching Milburn pulled the keys from his pocket and opened the door.

The trio piled in and headed for their usual table. 'Do we get free teas for helping thee find tha keys?' Compo asked hopefully. 'Aunty says I can't give free teas no more' Milburn replied apologetically. 'Never mind Crush a free bun will do instead' Compo cackled as his swiftly took a bun and a quick bite before Milburn could take it from him. 'Come and sit down, stop making a nuisance of yourself.' Foggy told him. 'Crush dun't mind.' Compo said, his spirit brightened by the free food and company. 'Tell him!' Clegg excitedly prompted Foggy. 'Alright, I was just getting round to that.' Foggy explained 'Guess who's coming to visit.' Compo thought for a second and blurted out 'Father Christmas'. 'No not Father Christmas, you fool.' Foggy said with exasperation. 'Who then?' Compo enquired. 'Blamire' replied Clegg.


End file.
